


Dave Has a Secret (But He Promised Not to Tell)

by Samsinater



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Death, Depression, Fear of Death, Gen, Not Your Typical Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4443854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samsinater/pseuds/Samsinater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a young age, Dave lost his sister, Rose, to the terrible and sudden clutches of death. But her mortality's untimely realization is not all as it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loss

He was only thirteen when it happened.

Like most tragic accidents, the untimely expiration of Dave's twin was almost entirely unpredictable, besides virtually impossible to prevent without an unnatural foreknowledge of the future.

But 'almost' was the operative word that night.

Their mother had had something of a drinking problem; she always had, ever since they were born, which of course she never really acknowledged or gave a reason for. However, having never seen nor heard of their father, no matter how far back in their short lives they tried to recall, both Rose and Dave suspected it was in some way because of him.

Ultimately, the cause did not matter nearly as much as its effect.

She had been drinking that night, and while this in itself was not unusual, she also insisted on driving them to and from their school's annual talent show. Dave had been practicing creating raps "on the fly," spitting out improvised rhymes on tempo without writing them down first, and while he still stumbled and stuttered every so often he had felt confident enough to make mention of his prided personal exploits at home.

But when the date and time for Dave to depart rolled around -- when the absolute latest point at which he could leave if he intended to meet his scheduled slot in the spotlight had come to pass -- the eccentric-but-sober older brother of their household was nowhere to be found, as was his ever-important driver's license. Rose casually admitted that she would absolutely loathe herself were she to miss Dave's performance, while throwing in a hushed slight about how spectacular his surely-inevitable failure would be, and so their mother decided for all involved that _she_ would drive them, excessive blood alcohol content notwithstanding.

It was by no small miracle that no ill fates befell anyone during the drive there, or that a half hour after their arrival, Dave left the school gymnasium with a cheaply commissioned piece of painted plastic which boldly displayed "second place." (Dave was good, but the kid with the timpani was better.)

On the way home, however, their luck came to a screeching halt, much like the second driver never did.

"Perhaps next year you'll also have warmed up to our brother's ventriloquism," Rose had said teasingly from beside Dave, unaware that these words would be her last. "Then you could string together 'dope rhymes' about your 'gangsta lyfe in tha hood' _and_ beatbox your own complementing 'phat beats' in the background all the while."

It was then, without mercy or grace, that Rose's life was cut short; and while Dave miraculously evaded death with little more than scratches and a bruise, the same could not be said of his grievously wounded mother, or the fatefully unbuckled driver of the Chevrolet which smashed into them.

Not once would Dave be given a firm answer as to how it happened. All he would receive was conjecture, theories of whether or not his mother ran a red light; of whether she entered a busy or nearly empty intersection; whether the night's darkness had brought temporary blindness to one or both drivers; or whether the alcohol or the second driver was most to blame, all amateurishly formulated by the civil servants whom could only show up after the fact. In the absence of any living witnesses, none were more able to analyze the wreckage to the point of finding a definite cause than any other.

Dave himself had been busy silently admiring his prize -- as well as mentally admonishing himself for not performing better -- and so never looked up until it was too late; his next coherent memories were of being strapped in beside his warm but unmoving sister, and the feeling of something wet on his arm. Blood, he discovered, but not his.

When the ambulances arrived and a well-equipped firefighter tore away the door that Dave would have been perfectly capable of opening, but worryingly hadn't, he was found trembling as he clutched the bloody and almost entirely unperforated body of his sisterly twin.

But 'almost' was the operative word that night.

No one could console him. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news -- the one who had to forcefully pull him from his grieving position, or bring him to face the truths of life, death, and the unfairness of both -- but one strong-willed paramedic managed to swallow his own measly emotions for the obligation of checking for injuries.

Dave did not resist the arms that unbuckled him, which gently tugged him aside and out from the wreck that crumpled too much more on the left side than the right, but he did refuse both treatment and close inspection. "Examine her first," he insisted with a clenched fist and an extended index finger, knowing damn well that the girl he pointed to had not been breathing for well beyond a lethal amount of time; had only gotten colder the longer he quietly sobbed against her; had only slowly oozed more blood onto him no matter how tightly he tried wrapping his arms around her. But he did not care. "Her first."

Although the medical technician's duties placed living human beings above recently deceased ones, the man reluctantly obliged, and in the process noticed the labored breathing of the woman whose torso and left leg had been all but crushed by what was once a driver-side door.

If Dave had to derive any consolation from this, it should have been that his mother would later die in the comfort of a hospital, rather than within the metal tomb she previously commanded without due responsibility. In reality, he was simply thankful that the woman who helped wrongfully end the life of his sibling could do no more damage from the afterlife, if the afterlife truly existed.

Ironically, it was this exact notion of ineffectual post-mortem "living" that gave Dave pause, especially once he began to hear a voice.

"...Dave?" it quietly asked, a single whisper soon lost in the commotion of everyone who tried desperately to retrieve any life they could from the nearby collision.

Dave had been all but ready to embrace death, himself, huddled up on the nearby curb once a second paramedic led him there and gave him a thin, blue-grey blanket. It sagged off his left shoulder, exposing an arm and half of his chest as it caused the blood soaked into his t-shirt to run cold, but Dave welcomed the night air's chill. Its gentle sting was nothing compared to everything he had thought, felt, or seen not five minutes earlier, but through his present numbness it was enough to assure him that he was still alive, even if no one else was.

When he heard that voice, still shivering and stifling every tear that represented his utter uselessness in the given situation, Dave's breath hitched, but he refused to look up, instead clenching his fist around the blanket's edge and only looking further down.

"...Dave...?" the voice eventually came again, sounding softer and more reluctant this time, hesitant.

"Shut up," he answered with a raw throat, before choking back the sob that nearly escaped it. "Dead people can't talk, and I don't want a heart-wrenching belated fucking goodbye."

"...Dead? I'm not..." but if the voice had any confidence before, it was lost as confusion overtook it entirely.

Minutes of silence passed Dave by, the only sounds to reach him being those of the powerful metal cutters and saws that mere mortal men tried in vain to wield, all for the single alcoholic woman who slowly lived less and less successfully in the heap of metal and death that taunted everyone who dare defy it.

It was in this time, still holding back as many tears as humanly possible, still shaking and gripping the woven fibers loosely draped across him, that Dave spared a single glance upwards.

Before him he saw the distinctive but fuzzy image of Rose, peaceful and still as she stood in the warm glow of the streetlamp which shone down upon her and illuminated her translucent form. Her outfit was the same as what her corporeal body wore, a white shirt with a cartoon squid that had had its eyes mostly scratched out, and a plain skirt which ended just above her knees. Her headband, shoes, and hair were all the same as well, but unlike her mortal form she sported no drying bloodstains or horrific gashes.

Time passed, and Dave's glance turned into unfettered staring, but as he looked on, she did not look back at him; instead, her attention was occupied by the sight of the cadaver which she resembled, still trapped by the safety device which had done nothing to slow or stop the vehicle that struck her down.

".....Oh," she said after some time, her speech deflated but calm.

"Yeah," Dave sniffed, failing to convey the snappy tone he intended as hollow melancholy filled his words instead. "'Oh.'"

Rose turned to look at him, her eyes neither lifeless and cold nor vibrant and assuring, and she frowned. Dave could only watch as she soundlessly walked over to him, before sitting beside him with glum acceptance. She stared blankly forward, seeming to still be lost in absorbing and accepting the facts of her demise.

When she did not immediately say anything more, Dave resumed staring at the cold pavement underfoot, almost certain that no matter which type of apparition Rose represented, it was one not long for this world.

But 'almost' was the operative word that night.

"...And here I always thought your terrible raps would be my ultimate undoing."

Slowly, ever slowly, Dave turned his head back up to look at Rose, stunned by her complacent demeanor -- never mind her currently assured state of unlife.

In time, Dave recovered, and allowed his pride to speak while logic and reasoning remained occupied. "My raps are the fucking bomb, and you know it," he mumbled, barely audible to even his own ears.

"If your raps were indeed any form of high-grade explosive, the child with the overrated mockery of drums wouldn't have thoroughly annihilated them in the 'sheer destructive force' portion of the competition."

As Dave stared on, baffled, Rose even dared to smile at him; it was a small smile, slightly mischievous and overall one that construed no great amount of ecstasy, joy, or energy, but it was a smile nonetheless. A simple, comforting contour of the lips that represented both nothing Dave wanted, and everything he needed.

But if he should have had any natural response to her words or actions, it was lost in his utter dumbfoundedness. To be so casual, even when it came to her own death, was just like her -- but the last thing Dave wanted was to dwell on what Rose once was, or who she used to be. "You're dead," he told her bluntly, in case she had somehow not stared at her own limp body for long enough.

"You're alive," she replied evenly, shrugging.

"This isn't a fucking joke, Rose; dead people don't just get to keep on walking and talking by sheer force of will." Dave sniffed again, and let out a shuddering breath as he shook his head softly, electing to stare back down at the pavement.

But out of the corner of his eye, Dave saw Rose put a hand to her chin, seeming to think intently about what he said. "And why not?" she asked whilst tilting her head.

"Because ghosts aren't real!" Dave half-shouted, half-sobbed wretchedly, wielding a sudden burst of volume as his gaze whipped back to Rose. His actions elicited a momentary stare from a single firefighter, but the collision and its sole living prisoner wrested back control of their attention. "Because _you_ aren't real," he said more quietly, spitefully.

Rose, for her part, looked entirely unphased by Dave's accusations, but made no immediate move to deny them. "Hm," she said thoughtfully but lightly, as though considering the unweighted logistics of throwing a paper airplane. "That is definitely an incalculably serious dilemma, if true, especially while I still appear to be sitting right here, holding a conversation with my brother. It does bring to mind one immediate concern: how can you be sure?"

"Well," Dave said weakly, and began gesturing broadly to everyone near the wreckage, "nobody over there is getting uppity about seeing you. Which probably means they can't see you, which is probably because you're fucking dead."

"That doesn't undeniably assert my form beside you as nonexistent, though. Why can't I share some special link with my twin, which pervades beyond even death itself -- perhaps one which has only become all the stronger now that I have met the abrupt unraveling of my mortal coils?"

Dave grimaced, and churlishly spat in a mumble, "Because that's fucking stupid."

"Mm, a nearly valid point," Rose conceded, nodding with closed eyes. "But if events ceased transpiration solely on the principle of being 'fucking stupid,' as you say, the mangled cadaver which once housed my restless spirit would not be sitting over there, while I speak from over here, would it?"

Dave said nothing in response to this, instead choosing to stare miserably at the ground again. His breaths were slow, and heavy, but none from any sort of physical injury; his ailments were housed purely within the mind, and his emotions all the more.

"...You know, Dave, it is not especially fair of you to so stubbornly ignore the ghost of your sister like this. _Especially_ when I don't have a body to give you some sort of conciliatory sibling hug or compassionate pat on the back with, to stop your moping." This failed to inspire Dave to speak again, but he did spare another look back up at Rose. "Worse still, you have absolutely no idea what kind of effort I'm putting in to stay in this world, rather than move on to the next; why, it's probably putting veritable tons of mental, if not _spiritual_ strain upon me, which I am without a doubt incapable of indefinitely maintaining.

"So come on," she said, nudging him with an elbow that he could only pretend to feel. "You have one last chance to talk with your sister before all traces of her vanish, and she permanently exits your life; are you really going to waste it by staring at your feet?"

Second by second, tangible moments of silence washed by Dave in the wake of Rose's question, each wave weighing down on him all the more, until eventually he sighed, shaking his head by the smallest margin.

"I thought not," Rose said knowingly, and put an arm Dave desperately wished he could lean into across his back.

Before Rose could continue, a creeping light began to blind Dave from his left. It quickly grew closer and brighter, coinciding with the intense rumblings of an engine not put to its maximum capabilities, and caused Dave to raise his blanket in defense. Within seconds, the light and noise reached a climax, before cutting out entirely, and as Dave lowered the blanket, he was blessed with the rare sight of his brother, dismounting from his motorcycle.

It was perhaps one of the few sights left in this world that Dave had to smile about.

"Wait, Dave," Rose said tentatively as Dave shakily stood up, clutching the blanket a little tighter now. He looked over at her as his brother removed his helmet. "Don't tell him. About me, I mean; in fact, don't tell anyone."

"Uh...?" Dave mumbled worriedly, before Rose put a transparent finger to his lips.

"Just trust me; I'm trying to save you from countless hours of purposeless therapy. Believe me, I would _love_ to see everything that a fully licensed therapist might be able to dig out of your demented psyche, but being sent to the psychiatric ward because you told everyone that you can see your dead sister floating around won't help either of us."

It was logical enough, but the idea of familial secrecy granted Dave discomfort, and he frowned meekly at Rose before looking back at his brother. A civil servant had approached, and was pestering him about whether he knew the boy on the sidewalk, or the dying woman who had just been put in an ambulance.

A hand that he could not feel, but which he could still seem to sense, was placed on Dave's shoulder, and he looked back to see Rose staring intently at him, a grave expression etched into her face. "Please, Dave; I mean it," she said quietly, more genuine than Dave had any prior recollection of. "Let's just keep me as... our little secret. Promise not to tell?"

Rose held her pinky out to Dave, a gesture both menacing and nonthreatening all at once, and Dave almost flat-out refused it.

But 'almost' was the operative word that night.


	2. Console

The ride home was long, but uneventful.

Rose's incorporeal form waved Dave off once he mounted the bike's rear, assuring him that she would fly home at her own pace. Their brother's immediate departure prevented further interaction, and so Dave resigned himself to what thoughts he could manage amid the motorcycle's deafening roar.

A certain comfort gradually welled up within Dave as he rode along with his brother, but as he sat patiently still on the hard leather seating, arms tightly wrapped around the only consistent flesh-and-blood presence he had left in life, Dave could not help but dwell on recent events.

Unfinished but numerous thoughts of blame, of what he could have done differently, and of how this could have been prevented all floated around in his mind, incessantly pervasive no matter how much he tried to shake his head clear of them. They were a festering mental plague the likes of which Dave had never before experienced, and so he could only hope they would depart on their own accord.

When he arrived home, Dave hopped off the bike without a word, but his brother stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Dave turned, and they shared a look, one indecipherable to all but the most familiar of observers, until eventually, as Dave refused to yield in either silence or staring, his brother nodded. His hand released, switching to a gentle pat on Dave's back, before he revved his bike's powerful engine and rode coldly away.

"He won't be joining us?" echoed Rose's voice once the motorcycle's rumblings had been drowned out by distance.

"...Nah," Dave said quietly, and shrugged before turning back to his home.

Rose now sat on a nearby bush, apparently unbothered by its errant twigs, and frowned as Dave walked past her. "You've just lost your twin sibling, and possibly your mother as well, and he refuses to so much as stay and console you?"

"Isn't his job to console me." The front door which Dave's mother never locked opened with a slight creak, and Dave sighed uneasily as he gazed upon his home's unlit interior.

It was very much the same home he had always lived in, and which he had neither forgotten the shape nor size of in the past two hours spent away from it. Now, however, its spacious halls would house only half its original occupants, and given the elder brother's sporadic disappearances, it would house them less than half as often.

"Isn't his job?" Rose parroted, mildly incredulous. She hastily floated ahead of Dave as he closed the door behind him, but carelessly disregarded the light switch. "Unless biology has suddenly failed us, by his very genetic code your brother is family -- which means, if Lilo and Stitch ever taught anyone anything, that he should remain here as one of the few comforting presences still available to you amid your present emotional turmoil."

Ignoring Rose, Dave trudged lethargically along in silence and darkness, passing wordlessly through the entrance hall into the living room, and then stopping at the foot of his home's only set of stairs. He gazed placidly up their darkened steps, and seemed to think deeply about something -- until Rose floated in front of him again, perching herself on the handrail and looking at Dave expectantly. "...Why do you suddenly care so much?" he asked bitterly, before marching mechanically up the stairs, one at a time.

"Well..." said Rose with a heaving sigh, drifting up the stairs beside Dave, "I _could_ ramble on about the teachings of numerous psychology texts I've perused in the past, which cumulatively suggest that the dead are best equipped to live on via the memories of the living, and that your lukewarm interactions with our mutual brother give no indication that I ever existed, but simply becoming an ethereal entity has already jammed the proverbial primate's wrench into those ideas. So, how about instead we just say I am at least _mildly_ concerned for the brother I'm currently haunting?"

Dave stopped at the top of the stairs, and shot Rose a bemused expression. "This is a proper fucking haunting now?"

Rose shrugged. "It sounds better than 'stalking from beyond the grave.' And don't change the subject."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, Rose," said Dave with a growing expression of disbelief, matched by an unwavering stare. For a brief moment, he spoke with his natural vitality and volume, vague hints of confidence playing at his tone. "You literally died earlier tonight, and yet you're STILL forcing conversations that nobody else wants to have. That is some straight-up unholy tenacity you got stuck in you; forget the fucking astral plane's summons, your stubborn ass ain't leaving this earth until you've talked me the fuck to death alongside you, AND you've made sure you were the verbal victor of every single goddamn conversation we have."

"Talking is good for you," Rose defended, crossing her arms. "It's one of the few acts which noticeably separates humans from every other mindless animal on earth."

"And yet you constantly ragged on me anytime you caught me talking to myself."

"That's different. It is!" she insisted when Dave rolled his eyes. "There is nothing to be gained from a conversation held with oneself. You can review information, sure, and possibly redevelop your opinions concerning the topics your private monologues cover, but without differing perspectives your gains are drastically limited."

A strained silence ensued, the two of them opinionatically butting heads without words or actions, until the vim which had temporarily poured back into Dave escaped him in a curt sigh. "Sure, Rose. God forbid you ever be wrong, lest your soul forever roam this earth as you bemoan _that_ fuckin' tragedy."

Neither sad eyes nor a mock-pout gained Rose any recompense, and so Dave walked gracelessly through her to the bathroom, both of them daring not speak back up.

The rest of the night followed this pattern of general silence, Dave occasionally looking over at Rose as she hovered around him, or sat precariously on something, or looked at him with some mixed expression as he went through his nightly motions of preparing for sleep. Temptations of falling face-down on his pillow without intent to wake up nibbled at Dave's mind, but the rituals of brushing his teeth, changing his clothing, and sulking in a long, hot shower all made for a much-needed distraction.

When Dave removed his shirt to prepare for that extended rinse, the way it briefly stuck to his skin reminded him of the blood which stained it, and once in his hands he stared at it in the moonlit darkness of his room for several minutes upon end. Even then, Rose said nothing, choosing only to gaze sadly at the dried fluids of what once gave her life; she had nothing else to contribute.

The logical course of action would have been to treat the shirt and throw it in the washing machine downstairs, but Dave hesitated. There was something... eerily consoling, he found, in having a physical reminder of his sister. Something he could hold in his hands, something he could _feel_ without fail, something which not only previously belonged to Rose but was once a part of her, so as to gift him those precious few moments of personal solace. It was a depressingly morbid consolation, but perhaps the only tangible consolation he had.

Eventually, Dave realized how long he had been studying the soiled article in his hands, and glanced up at Rose, who sat on his bed's edge and boredly kicked her feet. He expected a quip of some sort, and she seemed to understand this in her returned expression, but she produced no caustic comments; instead, Rose floated from the bed, smiled momentarily, and waved goodbye as she passed through the wall separating Dave's room from hers.

"Good night, Dave," her faint voice seemed to say from just beyond that wall, three words that Dave had never heard in succession from his sister when she was alive.

"...Good night, Rose."

* * *

In the days that followed, Dave would find himself in a looping, dull acceptance of the fate which had befallen him. His sister was undeniably dead now, and it was not long before he discovered his mother had not survived her first night in the hospital. The news was received with indifference, and so Dave ambled on with life.

School provided a fair distraction for some time, and while the initial influx of attention he received was overwhelming, Dave readily welcomed it. To feel as though people cared about him, and about his sister, actually brought him to publicly smile once or twice. Several of the nicer kids in his grade even offered to sit with him at lunch on several separate occasions, to let him know he did not have to be alone, and one girl flat-out hugged him, exchanging full bodily contact instead of empty verbal consolations. Dave nearly cried again as he lightly shook in her arms.

But if ever Dave's happiness was meant to last, it was not then. Returning to an empty home each day took a progressively worse toll on Dave, the impact of both Rose's and their mother's deaths soon weighing hard on him. The common courtesies offered to him by classmates and teachers at school rapidly fell to insufficiency, and so Dave began to grow inward, slowly declining in all aspects of his life.

Rose sticking around helped slightly, an uneasy comfort which lasted beyond that horrible night despite all expectations, but also caused Dave to silently bear even worse pain; the constant visual reminder of a deceased loved one granted no lasting ease, and Rose's often-careless attitude and remarks rarely inspired him to feel better whenever she opened her spectral mouth.

Such was Dave's new life.

When Rose's memorial service came around, which would be held in tandem with their mother's, Dave was given several teachers' permission to skip school to attend. But he chose to stay home that day, instead.

It was something Dave and Rose had gingerly come to agree upon; they had both seen her body sit achingly still for more than long enough that fateful night, and Rose in particular expressed a distinct lack of interest in seeing herself or her mother dolled up in makeup and a pretty dress for the sake of being carefully lowered into a hole in the ground.

"How many people, do you think," Rose asked while Dave stayed home, "have fallen prey to the customary social obligation of attending my death's official ceremony?"

The question hung in the air for several minutes as Dave stared sullenly at his room's ceiling, sprawled lazily out on his bed sheets with tired eyes and an uncombed head of hair. It was a position he had maintained since waking, for well past an hour now, but Rose had thus far refrained from verbally pushing him out of bed.

Briefly, Dave opened his mouth to respond, but slowly clamped his teeth back together with a soft click, saying nothing. Instead he gently shook his head, unconcerned with idle guessing games.

This, in turn, caused Rose to frown, and she floated over him until her eyes bore straight down into his.

"...It has come to my attention," she said slowly and deliberately as Dave stared through her, refusing to react to her presence, "that I may have been mistaken in thinking you might come to terms with my death as easily as I have."

Dave gave no response, and after fifteen seconds of silence had passed, Rose sighed, and continued. "It is perfectly natural to mourn for your personal losses, as it is to mourn silently, especially given the significant decrease in familial life you have recently suffered. I cannot blame you for acting as pathetically as you currently do, because you are no one but yourself, and I'm not skilled enough in hypnotics or any other form of psychotherapy to change that; however, I  _can_ tell you that you are a complete imbecile if you think lying in bed all day is going to somehow make everything miraculously better."

Gradually, Dave's eyes drifted from the ceiling, and the image of his sister's face which partially obscured it, until he was looking entirely off to the side. A hushed sigh escaped him, but he said nothing as his gaze now transfixed itself upon the wall.

"I'm not kidding, Dave." Effortlessly, Rose drifted down in front of him, intent on staying within his field of view. "It's unhealthy to mope around like this; in fact, it's usually about this time after someone kicks the bucket that a grieving fool such as yourself is supposed to ask, 'is this what my dearly departed loved one would have wanted me to do?' at which point he suddenly realizes the answer is a resounding 'fuck no,' and finally gets off his miserable ass to live the rest of his life. And here I am in person, readily available to tell you that the answer is, in fact, 'fuck no.'"

"Sure," Dave drawled, blinking sluggishly. "I gotta live my life because that's what _you_ want. Helluva lot easier for you to get at arms about, seeing as dead people don't got jack shit for responsibilities beyond sitting the fuck still in a coffin for all eternity."

An annoyed grunt escaped Rose, but she retained her calm demeanor. "At least you're talking again," she observed. "That's a good sign."

"Cool; I'll pass on the rest of your spectral fuckin' guidance then." Dave turned over in his bed, until he stared at the blinds covering his room's only window. Rose immediately followed, obstructing his view as much as her transparent form would allow.

"Dave, I'm not your enemy here. Hell, I'm actually trying to be genuinely  _nice_ to you for a change, and offer you sound personal advice; isn't that what you want? What you, arguably, objectively _need?_ Why can't you accept my concern and start trying to move along with your life again?"

"How about because I'm depressed as shit," Dave mumbled. "That a good enough reason for you?"

"As a matter of fact, it's not."

"Then I dunno what to fuckin' tell you." And with that, Dave firmly shut his eyes.

Shortly, silence fell upon the room, no sounds reaching Dave's ears beyond his own slow breathing. A very small curiosity began to grow as to Rose's response, if she had any, but the oppressive mental fog Dave currently suffered from assured him at length that it was not worth concerning himself with, smothering that curiosity until not even a hint of it remained.

Then, after some twenty odd seconds of time sluggishly passing, and with an utter upheaval of all politeness and courtesies that might have been even remotely at play before, the silence ended.

"For fuck's sake, Dave," that same voice abruptly snapped, no longer gentle or calm. "How can you legitimately expect your sister to comfort you when, as she finally does so, you reject her every attempt? It's as though you have some twisted fantasy about _wanting_ to be miserable -- in fact, that's it, isn't it? You're not the sort who experiences intense negative emotions while bearing a well-concealed pilot light for the express purpose of igniting a wholesome, inherent burning desire to _escape_ your personal depressive hell; you _want_ to feel as wretched and alone as you possibly can, even when your sister transcends mortal limitations to unabashedly _tell you_ that wallowing around in your own sordid feelings accomplishes nothing!"

Several spare moments of hollow breaths passed following this, soft but stressed pants which barely reached Dave, and he belatedly realized they were not his own. In time, they slowed, until Dave could not hear them above his own quiet breathing, and then Rose continued.

"...All I have left now to interact with you is sight and sound," Rose said, her calm voice having returned. "With you closing your eyes, that leaves me only one possible means of still reaching out to you, so that you  _won't_ become a marvelous scraping of unresponsive shit who refuses to so much as exit his room; and that means you have two options, Dave. Either put your hands over your ears too, or open your eyes back up, get out of bed, and if nothing else, just..."

Audibly, Rose took a deep breath, as though about to spit out something foul, but she never did. "...feed yourself," she quietly finished on exhale. "Tend to your basic human needs again. Ignore me if you really must, but for the love of any respectable cosmic deity in our universe, don't just waste away in isolation. You may be heavily depressed over my death, and perfectly within your right to feel that way, but do you have any idea how much _more_ depressing it is to die, return to the earth for one last visit in spirit form, and find that the one person you truly cared about is now willfully discarding their own life in as agonizingly slow and painful a manner as they possibly can?"

Rose paused briefly, sounding closer to crying than Dave had ever heard, but she quickly recomposed herself and pushed on. "I thought you were doing better when you went back to school. You even looked genuinely happy for a short time, as happy as you could with that aloof expression of apathy you always wore, but you aren't actively talking to your friends anymore; you're not eating as much as you used to; even your grades are slipping worse than before. Just because I no longer have a life does not mean you are now validated in any attempts to throw yours away, Dave, and short of entering your body, merging our souls together, and _literally possessing you,_ I don't know how to make that any clearer!"

Tinges of desperation now crept along the edges of Rose's voice, signifying perhaps the greatest emotional investment Dave had ever heard in his sister's voice, yet still she pressed on. "You still have a full life left to live," she asserted, hastily reaccumulating the steam necessary to continue, "one ripe with every possibility that your current youth grants you -- and I _refuse_ to sit idly by while you slowly shred it to pieces and scatter them in the wind as though--"

"Stop," Dave finally said, quiet but firm, and to her credit Rose halted her speech immediately. "I get it. And... as fuckin' _usual_... you're not wrong, Rose."

When Dave reopened his eyes, it was completely unceremonious, but he was still greeted with the pleasant image of his sister smiling as warmly as she could at him, blinking back ghostly tears. "Try not to hold it against me," she asked simply of him as he gracelessly slid out of bed.

He made no promises, but that day, Dave would eat breakfast for the first time since Rose passed away. It was the first infinitesimally small step on the harrowing path to leading a healthy life again.


	3. Redirect

With Rose's help, Dave steadily worked his way back into a healthy lifestyle, much like the one he lived before tragedy struck him.

It was difficult at first, and moreover unsettling as Dave received life-coaching from someone who was irrevocably dead, but like the vigilant caretaker Dave's mother never was, Rose reminded him to eat whenever he skipped a meal, encouraged him to speak whenever he began to shy away from a conversation, and made absolutely sure that he knew she was there for him, especially whenever no one else was.

In time, days of personal recuperation turned to weeks, but despite Rose's initial claims of having another world to eventually pass on to, she failed to leave Dave.

Occasionally, she might disappear for some number of hours by floating through a wall, or choosing not to follow Dave someplace, especially whenever he confronted her on her newfound caring nature, but she primarily remained by his side, defending herself in those times with claims of having little else to make a hobby out of in her present intangible state. If Rose could in any way interact with physical environments, or other people, she refused to give any indication of it.

Then one day, once Dave had found himself in a comfortable rhythm similar to what his life used to follow -- comprising of listening to music again, chatting with close friends, and making "ironic" attempts at producing digital art -- Rose's helpful nature took on a decidedly mischievous tint.

Dave had been sitting in class, participating and absorbing information at no worse a rate than anyone else in the room, when a test was handed out. It was in multiple-choice format, and the teacher had given everyone a week's notice, so the test was not one Dave felt especially unprepared for; but instead of remaining quiet while perched on the teacher's desk as usual, Rose spoke up as soon as Dave received his copy.

"...Say, Dave..." she said slowly, making sure to catch his attention before continuing. He glanced up at her, but said nothing, on account of being in a public environment. "I've just thought of something. I can help you ace this test of yours -- ace just about any written assignment, really."

She floated up from the desk she sat on, and moved behind it. "Your teacher should have a copy of all the answers for grading, right? I'll bet that I can stick my head through her desk, surreptitiously peek at it, and simply give you the answers. You'd never need to study again."

Dave furrowed his brow at Rose in a general attempt to convey to her that he did not feel like cheating today, but if Rose understood the gesture, she failed to take his wishes into account.

Her head disappeared inside the desk, noiselessly passing through all the drawers on one side, and then the other, until she finally stopped inside one. How she could possibly see anything inside those presumably-dark enclosed spaces was beyond Dave, but he was given little time to think on it. "The first answer is 'c,'" she called, slightly muffled but still audible. "Next is 'b,' then 'a,' 'b' again, 'd,' 'c'..."

On a frantic, obliging whim, Dave hastily penciled in every answer Rose gave him, a task which he was absolutely not given enough time to thoroughly accomplish before she finished uttering each respective letter.

Still, he managed at least a single scraping of graphite next to each question's specified choice -- and no sooner had he finished marking the last question than did Rose fly hurriedly over to peer down at his work from just in front of his desk.

"There, see?" she asked with a finger pointed at the test's pages, and her best attempt at a pleasant smile. "The whole of your formidable test, vanquished in less than a minute. That leaves you over fourteen more minutes to casually whittle away at your leisure -- once you turn it in, anyway."

Dave frowned at her, which meant he appeared to be frowning at the space just above the student sitting in front of him, but thankfully no one noticed. For some bizarre, completely unprecedented reason, Dave did not trust Rose's attempts to rush him through his test, and he refused to accept her aid without skepticism.

In tune with this hesitant mindset, Dave checked carefully over the answers Rose had given him, drawing from the admittedly-lacking but still-extant well of knowledge he had developed in this class, and he quickly found that almost every single choice he had marked was blatantly wrong.

"Okay," Rose admitted reluctantly when he began erasing these original markings, and replacing them with his better-informed guesses, "sorry; I tried to have some fun at your expense just now. Personally, I thought calling out random answers and having you shamelessly write them all down was brilliant -- but while you might not agree, can you blame a girl for growing bored when her entertainment options are comprised solely of whatever her brother is doing at any given moment?"

Dave never had a true chance to respond whilst in class, and so their exchange ended there; Rose's intervening mischief, however, would abide by no such courtesy.

Within the week, among every one of her legitimate expressions of concern regarding Dave's well-being, Rose threw in the additional curveballs of individually-tailored, highly-inappropriate topics to converse about with his various friends; an unsettlingly long, distracting list of sultry adjectives and characteristics concerning one of his female teachers -- produced during that teacher's lecture, no less; a falsified warning about the contents of his lunch, and how a cockroach definitely crawled through it earlier; and assuring him in a genuine tone that it was safe to cross a street on the way home, while a large truck speedily approached.

What deeply unnerved Dave about that last prank in particular was that he had not initially seen the truck, and very easily, he felt, could have been reduced to a crimson smear had the driver not seen him, or had he not swiftly moved back to the sidewalk upon hearing the vehicle's soberingly loud horn.

"...Rose," Dave said with a wavering but unhappy tone, once the road was clear, "a few weeks ago you were tellin' me all about how I still had the entire goddamned remainder of my life to finish living, and even managed to pierce my fresh shell of mopey bullshit 'n' depressive obstinacy enough to motivate me into actually _living_ it -- but now that I'm feeling kinda okay with my life again, you're subtly trying to fucking kill me?"

"Subtly?" Rose asked in an offended tone, as though that were the key word in Dave's question. "Dave, that truck was ludicrously visible; if you sincerely did not witness its approach, then you are the one at fault for believing my judgement to be so impossibly impeccable, and for vicariously relying upon it so wholeheartedly and without question."

"...Uh-huh," intoned Dave, who then began to consider the inherent moral issues a more well-adjusted person might find in Rose's light perception of what had essentially been a cold attempt on his life; but before he could act on these considerations, Rose continued.

"And besides, you speak as though a girl can never, ever change her mind. I mean, sure, the fairer sex has been informally 'known' for stubbornly maintaining their personal opinions and insisting they are always undeniably right, but that's a rather old stereotype these days; now, it's not nearly so impossible to believe that, just as you have been enlightened to the prospect of living your life with significant vigor again, I may have come to decide that being an ethereal entity really isn't all that bad, and that I would not entirely mind if you joined me."

Dave stopped walking, and took a moment to appreciate the fact that nobody living was presently in earshot of him. "...The fuckin' _absurd_ amount of shit wrong with what you just said aside," he said with a sweeping hand motion, "did it never occur to you that _I_ might mind?"

"It did occur to me, actually, just as it occurred to me that you would probably begin doggedly arguing against it, as you have already begun to."

"...So basically what you're saying is you decided _for me_ that, because I _might_ just possibly mayhaps enjoy bein' dead MAYBE, expediting my mortal fuckin' doom is perfectly dandy and okay of a thing for you to do?"

"Well, I made specifically sure to convey it in a manner that sounded significantly less unforgivable and accusatory, but yes, essentially."

A lengthy pause brushed by as Dave patiently waited for Rose to see something wrong with their current conversation, or what she had contributed to it, but as he realized she had no intentions of this, he sighed, irritably pinched the bridge of his nose, and started walking again. "How the fuck am I even supposed to respond to something like this," he said dully, and forgot to make it a question. "What actual response is there to my dead twin encouraging me to off myself because, 'hey, it isn't ALL bad being a metaphysical entity with no concept of personal boundaries!'?"

"I'm guessing you mean besides the obvious response of offing yourself."

"...And you know what the worst part of that fucking _tantalizingly_ morbid offer of yours is?"

"Enlighten me, David."

"That I'm able to legitimately fucking consider it _without_ a sense of personal safety immediately bitch-slapping my brain for so much as glancing in that thought's general direction."

"Excellent!" Rose said without hesitation, clapping her hands together with no regard for the statement's true weight. "I knew you'd come around."

"I didn't say I'm gonna fucking do it!" and Dave made specifically sure to stop and menacingly jab a finger at Rose while saying this. "Especially not while I still get squeamish at the sight of my own goddamn blood. Plus!" he said with a sudden burst of energy, "I'm pretty sure contemplating suicide is a complete BEHEMOTH of a psychological no-no in this country; fuck the uncouth social faux pas of talking to my dead sister, if people catch wind of the fact that I think she's saucily whispering some choice sweet-nothings to me about how awesome it would be if I joined her in the afterlife, nobody's gonna trust me to handle even vaguely sharp objects ever again! Goodbye knives, forks, and anything electronic with a plug; hello to padded rooms with straight-jackets, and maybe a plastic fucking spork, IF I'M LUCKY."

"Well..." Rose considered with a finger to her chin, "while you're not exactly wrong with your predictions, it doesn't have to be a widely-projected event. It is actually rather easy to go quietly into that good night, these days. Painlessly, too."

"Oh my fucking god, we are not seriously talking about this. No -- forget that I said I'm even fucking considering this; that's bullshit, this talk is bullshit, your goddamn post-death suicide pact is COMPLETE BULLSHIT, and I really don't want to have to deal with it right now or any time in the future EVER."

But despite Dave's immediate attempts to stomp away from Rose, she continued floating alongside him with ease. "...You can't outrun a ghost, Dave, especially not the ghost of your sister." For added effect, she whispered into his ear, "I know where you live."

Dave ignored her, and firmly maintained the new brisk pace that was just shy of full-on running. This continued for some dull, loathsomely stretching number of minutes, Rose remaining mostly silent as anything she did say went unacknowledged, until Dave finally reached the front door of his home. By then he was panting slightly from the extended exertion, but he opened the door and stepped inside without a word, slamming it shut behind him.

This, of course, had no impact whatsoever on Rose's ability to enter the home, but she did spare Dave a noticeable, albeit brief moment of solitude before continuing her pursuit.

Inside, Dave rapidly ran out of steam, and in so doing, was caught offguard by the slightly ajar pizza box on the living room's coffee table. It was the same dinner his brother had brought home every other night prior, since the accident, but usually he encountered it in a much calmer state of mind. Contemptuously eating a slice of pepperoni pizza sounded as appealing to Dave as it did unabashedly stupid, and so he walked cantankerously past the offending box, hurriedly ascending the nearby stairs and entering his bedroom in a matter of seconds.

Here, however, there was nowhere further for Dave to escape to, which left him effectively cornered when Rose drifted through the door, his energy depleted. His only defense against her was collapsing stomach-down atop his bed, although this move's effectiveness proved minimal as he saw Rose hover in front of his view of the window, obstructing his vision with a subdued expression of mock-pity.

"...You're not reverting back to ignoring me now, are you?" Rose cautiously asked after just under a minute of silence.

"I am if you're gonna start bein' a negative fuckin' influence in my life -- or ON my life."

"...Hm," she mumbled thoughtfully after some time, and tepidly sat on the side of the bed that was within Dave's field of vision. "...Perhaps... all things considered, and all impish joviality aside... my games _did_ escalate a bit more quickly than was warranted."

"Gee, you fuckin' think? I mean, I will admit that all but straightup telling me to bone my English teacher or saying you saw something crawl through my applesauce is on a totally different level from trying to indirectly fuckin' murder me, but if I'm being honest, I'd really appreciate it if you just plain didn't do ANY of those things."

"I suppose that makes this the part where I offer some form of apology, then, for allowing my practical japery to get so perceptively out of hand. ...To be fair, though, you _were_ the one who started complaining about how I did nothing but ensure you lived a better, safer life instead of--"

"Okay, whoa whoa whoa," Dave interjected impudently, rolling onto his back before sitting up to face Rose, "back that train of thought the fuck up. First off, I didn't _complain_ about jack dick -- I just figured I'd point out the fact that you were bein' a helluva lot nicer to me nowadays than you ever were while alive. It was new, and I noticed it; the end. Secondly, lettin' you know that you're doing somethin' new does not condemn you to a life of wreaking some familiar goddamn havoc on your brother. Your sibling rivalry was already plenty on-par when you were alive, Rose, and I can assure you that there is absolutely no need to bring it along into your endless state of death too."

"Oh, but Dave," Rose said whilst melodramatically clasping her hands over her chest, "it was so _terribly_ difficult of me to consistently withhold that _overwhelming_ urge to toy with you while I was busy being your metaphorical rock; cut your twin some slack! A girl has to let loose and incessantly pester some family every so often, lest she succumb to the _wretched_ clutches of spectral adolescent boredom!"

"Look, I'm all for you obtainin' your daily recommended dose of kicks, shits, giggles and what-have-you by creatively expressing your inner self, or whatever the ghostly-altered fuck, but I'd rather you didn't while ALSO presuming to play eternal Davesitter -- especially not if you're gonna intentionally endanger my life. Like, you might be figurin' it's easier to keep me from danger in death or some bullshit, 'cause you can't kill what's already dead, but that's just a jank means of esoterically worming your way out of Asimov's code; I very much still want to stay alive and experience my fair share of life's shitty bounty before I go."

Rose blinked, opened her mouth to respond, and then frowned as she closed it. She then tried again, with better success. "You do realize Asimov's laws are for automatons, right?"

" _Yes_ I realize they are for fucking robots; the point is I don't want you gettin' smart on my ass about how you're totally still playing Motherly Sibling Ghost Protector by leading me directly into the path of a high-velocity two-ton object. Same goes for literally any other way you might abruptly end my life against my will."

"...You really are hung up on the whole 'truck approaching crosswalk' incident, aren't you? That truck was hardly even close when you stepped onto the road; you were never in any real danger, Dave, and if you were I would have immedia--"

"Rose," Dave said, silencing her with a raised hand, "I'm gonna try to be civil about this, so please just hear me out to an extra-special degree for once in your... not-life. Can you do that?" Rose hesitated, but nodded once, holding her tongue. "Okay. I would GREATLY fucking appreciate it," Dave continued slowly, "if you did not play semantics with the various encounters in my life which could potentially result in my ass getting horribly eviscerated, alright?

"There was a truck on the same road as me, you saw it, and you chose not to warn me about it; I don't give a shit if that thing was fifty feet away or five hundred feet away, that truck made me have a bullshit moment of eye-centric life-flashing, and now it's makin' me question whether you're as sane, calm, or collected as you let on. Judging whether your relentlessly frigid demeanor and unending slights were a sign of legitimate psychopathy, or just your personal brand of distancing yourself the fuck away from everyone else, was hard enough when you were alive; I dunno what the fuck kind of standards I should expect to keep while you're dead, but I would prefer if they were the same as before you permanently went ghost. That good with you?"

A silent moment passed, and softly, Rose released a small sigh, but stared into Dave's eyes immediately afterward. "Dave," she said in as reassuring a voice as she could muster, "I would never hurt you; I promise that. I do have an odd, if not legitimately twisted sense of humor, which I often extensively use without reprieve, and I may occasionally tease you or display a seemingly lackadaisical level of concern for your health, but you are my flesh-and-blood brother, and I your..." Rose paused, awkwardly.

"...well, none of those, being your soul-and-ectoplasm _sister,_ but the factual concept remains that I am here for you. My callous jokes about your life are simply a personal means of coping with my inherent lack thereof; they are not to imply I would ever literally throw you under the bus -- or truck, as the case may be.

"That said," she said with a steadily growing smirk, "I won't have to shamefully beg your forgiveness for that indiscretion, too, will I? I ask not because I will, but because I won't, and I would hate for your hopes to dramatically rise before incidentally shattering themselves on the jagged rocks that collectively represent my indifferent attitude."

"...You know, Rose," Dave said, looking on with a placid expression, "you got a real stupid way of letting other people know you sincerely give a shit about them. Especially since I'm still not entirely sure whether you actually confirmed that you _do_ give a shit."

"Call it a personal flaw. So long as you understand that, as a rule, being literal is my mortal enemy, and I will only ever accept its friendship in dire circumstances, such as my brother failing to grasp the exact, immense quantity of shits I am willing to proffer for his benefit."

"...Yeah, sure. Just don't abuse that flaw to get me fuckin' killed without my permission, alright? If I ever seriously WANT to die, believe me, you'll be the first to know and get consulted -- but before that possibility sees the light of day, I'd rather try 'n' keep it on my own terms, and not yours, okay?"

Rose smiled, genuinely if Dave had anything to say about it, and nodded once. "Okay. For you, and you alone, I will postpone my elaborate plans to push you down the stairs without being able to physically touch you."

"It's all I'm askin'."

"...That said," and Rose straightened up a little, standing before Dave in mock-sternness and pointing at his bedroom door, "go eat dinner before you forget. Pizza may not have all the nutritional value of a meal hand-cooked by a partially inebriated mother, but it's something, and has a distinct ease of access in our home."

"Rose," Dave groaned as he carefully rolled off his bed, "holy shit, I _know_ ; you have given me that _exact_ same spiel every fuckin' night that I did not IMMEDIATELY shovel some grub into my gullet upon arriving home."

"And I will continue to do so until you have consistently stuffed your piehole with edibles at the appropriate times of day for at least ten years straight, just to ensure the habit is solidly ingrained in your psyche."

"Pft. Yeah," Dave mumbled as he started down the stairs. "You would."

"I not only would, I will; now go, scurry along and _eat,_ " Rose insisted from the top of the stairs. "Mommy bird has to decide what to occupy her time with while her adopted hatchling remains the only corporeal one in the nest. Perhaps I shall gaze wistfully into the mirror, wishing I still had a reflection, or stare longingly at a thoroughly unusable tube of black lipstick. The night is young and rife with possibilities for a discarnate young lady such as myself."

"...Hey, speaking of," called Dave up the stairs, as he paused at the bottom. A somewhat guilty thought had just occurred to him. "If it... if you'd like, I'll, uh... I'll play Monopoly with you tonight. I mean, for real this time; I'll move all the pieces for you and everything, and then you can completely nail my ass with your fuckin' real estate schemes while I just sit there and take it, instead of grouchily leaving halfway through again."

"...Would you really?" Rose's voice asked, as her head poked out from behind the corner at the stairs' peak.

"I... Yeah," Dave decided firmly with a subtle nod. "I would. But only for you, Rose."

And although this sentiment would lead to Dave losing at the same board game three consecutive times in a single night, to a dead girl no less, he would see it as the most enjoyable time he had spent with his sister in a long, long overdue while.


	4. Abstain

As their differences quickly settled and their mutual circumstances remained intertwined, Dave and Rose came to enjoy a peaceful life together, so to speak.

Within some short few months, the devastating effects of Rose's death had fallen to all but utter nonexistence; and while his new life required some adjusting to, Dave tackled it head-on, proving himself the victor against its challenges more often than not. He would never admit it, especially not while his promise held, but this was a lasting feat he never could have accomplished without Rose's influence. Her meddling was, ultimately, an overwhelmingly positive boon, and his gratitude could only grow with her extended presence.

It went without saying that her idle games persisted, and that it was not every day Dave felt especially grateful to have someone ruthlessly tease him from beyond the grave, but now Rose seldom bothered Dave more thoroughly than was possible with a short verbal assault, instead rallying her skills more toward encouraging Dave and providing helpful reminders whenever he needed them. Respectful boundaries were established early, and followed unquestioningly, as they both displayed a lasting desire to forge a bond as inseparable siblings.

Soon, weeks and months passed at a time without hindrance; gone were the brief but stinging days of Dave wallowing in misery, fighting uphill battles against clouded judgement, living fruitlessly in the unchangeable past, or simply allowing the world to pass him by. He grew, not only physically but mentally as well, ascending the academic rungs of school's successive grades until graduation was a past event and, under Rose's guidance, he would consider enrolling in college.

The task, simple though it was when compared to his previous tribulations of the heart, proved tricky at first; tuition was high, and Dave's personal funds low. Here, however, his elder brother made his presence known more than he ever had before.

Despite never becoming any less elusive, Dave's brother had never ceased supporting him financially, and whatever jobs he constantly worked while out of the house, he had worked almost entirely in Dave's name. Over time, with everything he could scrounge together over the years -- in addition to what their mother had already begun to save -- Dave's brother had amassed for him a respectable college fund. Combined with applicable scholarships, Dave had just enough to sail through four years of college without so much as a hint of debt.

There is perhaps something to be said of the intrinsic value of this money, earned across several cumulative years of time spent away from home, and how it might pale to the emotional support Dave could have used from his brother in that time instead -- but the matter was nothing Dave held argument or complaint about; Rose had kept him plenty of company, and the monumental amount of thoughtfulness and love put into the gift, which had been accumulated past every unmentioned dollar that kept him fed and under a sturdy roof, was beyond words. Dave accepted it without question.

Finding a subject to study seriously was difficult, initially, but even this posed no lasting trouble to Dave. He certainly had options; though often used recklessly and esoterically, Dave had developed a certain artistic "talent" in the later years of his childhood. The interest of paleontology, meanwhile, which he followed for some time at Rose's behest, also gave him plenty to think about. With photography and music production populating his interests as well, Dave settled on as much of an all-encompassing educational move as he could by exploring professional film production.

Then, it was simply a matter of accomplishing the goal Dave had set out for himself.

"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?" Rose queried while Dave boxed up the personal belongings that would accompany him to higher education.

"Pretty goddamned sure, Rose."

"I'm just saying; while you _do_ have sufficient funds for a more-or-less full ride through college, earning some extra spending money along the way couldn't hurt. It might even allow you to pay your brother back, should you feel especially guilty in the future."

"And I never questioned that," Dave responded easily, before the grating sounds of mailing tape being unfurled interrupted him. He patted the loosened strip flat against the top of the box he had just finished packing, before primly cutting it off at the box's end. "But if I do get a part-time job, rest assured it ain't gonna be as a male stripper."

"You're missing out on an impossibly huge market with that decision, Dave. The number of people who will pay exorbitant amounts of cash to see someone wear a thong on a raised platform is only growing with each passing day; it's a very lucrative business."

"Where the hell would you even get the kinda information that might lead you to believe that, anyway? I mean, besides from up your ass."

"I have my sources, and they very much exceed the fictitious connotations of even the mightiest of rectums. Such as, for instance, flying out into the world and exploring them firsthand whenever you are asleep."

"That's..." Dave started, with an accusatory finger pointed at Rose. "...totally like you, to use your ghostly abilities for the express purpose of visiting a nudie bar. I mean, you'd probably be quoting Freud at all the dancers while you did, but only for your own guilty, perverted conscience, given that none of 'em'd be able to hear you."

"Oh? You are of the belief that I have abruptly grown a conscience since death?"

"Since earlier today, too; a full-throttle miracle at its motherfuckin' finest. But I think the bigger concern is the ghost of my thirteen year-old sister hitting up the eighteen-plus section of town."

This was concerning, Dave found, because Rose had not changed in appearance during the last five years, leaving a somewhat stark contrast between them given his current, more impressive stature. He never exactly expected Rose to "grow" whilst dead, but the differences in their respective heights and pitches of voice still occasionally unsettled him.

"Oh, please," Rose scoffed with a wave of her hand, "I've been on this earth for just as long as you. A little longer, even, if you believe in the extra few seconds separating our respective births."

"I mean, you're wrong in both that you're usually flying, and also no longer in possession of a physical body to command, thereby not actually 'on' the earth in any sense whatso-fuckin'-ever, but sure, Rose. If it makes you feel content to view live-action pornography, I absolve your spirit of all age-related concerns. You go ahead 'n' watch as many homosexual and-slash-or utterly shameless male pole-dancers as you damn well please."

A lull presented itself in the conversation as Rose produced no immediate response, and Dave set about packing what he hoped would be his final box. The essentials were already crammed together between their own pieces of cardboard, and so now all that remained were the tertiary and miscellaneous items, such as a few hygienic products, pens and notebooks that might be entirely irrelevant at his school of choice, and board games, for him and Rose to play together in his spare time.

"...Hey, Rose," Dave muttered, as he momentarily hesitated on packing away Scrabble. "Why are you still around, anyway? I mean, obviously you've disproved lotsa general conceptions about ghosts and ghouls just by bein' one and not followin' 'em, but aren't ghosts supposed to be the, uh... 'metaphysical embodiment' of someone who didn't get do something in life, and regrets the fuck out of it or some shit?"

Rose looked at him curiously. "Why do you ask? Do you not enjoy my everlasting presence as much as you once did?"

"Rose, don't do that," Dave said with slight exasperation, shaking his head. "In a ridiculously unironic way, you have been one of the absolute BEST goddamned influences on my life that I could've ever asked for, and I know for a fucking fact that you're as vividly aware of it as I am. I'm just wondering _why_ , beyond a generic 'because you're my brother' response."

"So you are seeking a scientific, if sisterly explanation regarding a supernatural occurrence, namely my extended presence which has persisted despite my untimely death years ago?"

"Pretty much. Do you got one, or should I write up the last five years to a spur-of-the-moment whim you decided to follow?"

"Well," said Rose in a thoughtful tone, as though trying to figure it out, herself, "let's assume you are correct in that I, as a restless entity of only partial transposition with this mortal plane, am only here because I have 'unfinished business' to attend to. A regret, a vendetta, or similar strong and unresolved desire; what might it be?"

Dave rolled his eyes as Rose ended her question with a playful smirk. "Is this Twenty Questions now? Do I gotta motherfuckin' deduce the answer based on all the 'yes or no' questions I think to ask you?"

"That sounds incredibly fun, actually, but I'll spare you since you seem so legitimately interested, and work you through it myself."

Rose began to pace several inches above the floor, speaking slowly and deliberately. "As we have already established, concerning my interactions with this world, I am incapable of manipulating physical objects, or doing much of anything whatsoever sans talking to my twin brother."

"So, what, that makes me your regret somehow?"

"In some way, sure; that seems to be the only relevant deduction. But don't interrupt." Dave shrugged, and so Rose continued. "The most obvious conclusion we might leap to first, in light of this, is that I remained here to ensure that your own life would not dramatically conclude itself, or otherwise spiral out of control following my and our mother's deaths -- but, were this the case, surely I would have disappeared within a few months, no more than a full year at worst, after that torturous incident so long ago. You are, after all, much more well-adjusted now than you were then. Thus, it must be something else; but what?"

"Seein' as that's exactly what I'm asking you, I have no clue."

"The question was rhetorical, Dave; I'm not quite done yet. Now, if we persist with the assumption that I am only still here due to some passionate inclination, presumably one deeply connected to my emotional impulses, and add it to the fact that you are the only one with whom I can interact, primarily-if-not-solely through verbal exchanges and visual displays..."

Dave stared neutrally at Rose, whom he began to realize was waiting for him to finish her statement himself, and frowned. "I sincerely fuckin' hope you are insinuating you're here because you love me _platonically,_ and have been waiting this long to finally get THAT unbearable admission off your chest."

"I was thinking more along the lines of this abstract representation of a shirt I'm wearing," and for flair, Rose suggestively lifted the hem of her 'shirt' just above her pellucid bellybutton.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Rose," Dave groaned, rolling his eyes and turning away from her. "Don't joke about shit like that."

"Oh, Dave. Your pigheaded demeanor may be thoroughly self-assured that I am joking, but what if I'm not? What if you are rejecting the wholly-legitimate advances of the poor, heartbroken sister who, for five straight years, could not bear to confess to you her literally-undying affection, and so instead settled for caring after her romantic interest as a mother would, in the remote hopes that one day she might build up the courage to unveil that secret, once and for all?"

"Then your existence and our interactions as a whole are exponentially MORE fucked up than I previously thought possible. Goddamn, Rose, if just publicly _talking to you_ is theoretically enough to land me in a mental hospital, where the fuck are people gonna send me if I say you're offering to bone me?"

"Who says you're obligated to tell anyone? You've kept our first secret for so long; why not keep this one as well?"

"Okay, I am going to pretend that you did not just compare the importance of withholding mentions of your continued existence to us engaging in freaky, paranormally sexual activity. Incestual, UNDERAGED sexual activity no fuckin' less."

"Dave, I told you," Rose said softly, with a translucent hand placed delicately on his shoulder from behind, which Dave did his damnedest to ignore. "I've been around just as long as you have. If you're eighteen and of the legal age for consensual intercourse, then so am I."

"H-how the _fuck_ ," Dave stuttered momentarily, but pushed on, determined not to lose his cool in any manner, "do you even expect to seduce your brother when we can't physically touch each other?"

"Have you never heard the term 'mutual masturbation' before?"

"Rose," Dave said loudly, still adamantly refusing to turn around or look in Rose's direction, "I will start wearing my sunglasses again and even paint the insides of the lenses completely fucking black if I have to."

"You know, that might actually help; isolating one of the five traditional senses tends to heighten the others, and thus might enhance the pleasure derived from--"

"Oh my god we are NOT fucking talking about this," Dave almost shouted to interrupt Rose, decidedly finished now with keeping all the cool he had just violently discarded, before flinging open his bedroom door and quickly exiting the room. For once, as he hurried down the nearby staircase, Dave was overjoyed to know that his brother was not home.

"Dave?" Rose called worriedly from upstairs, abruptly dropping the teasing quality of her voice.

A hushed silence fell upon the whole of the house as Dave failed to answer her, despite her sudden genuine tone, instead entering the kitchen downstairs and, once there, proceeding to make a sandwich.

He was hardly hungry, especially since dinner had already passed, but Dave felt the need to occupy himself with a distraction. It always seemed to stifle Rose, Dave had found, whenever he did something beyond walking away or closing his eyes, as though an active display of disregarding her somehow more thoroughly indicated that he did not plan on willfully subjecting himself to her bouts of verbal torment for longer than necessary.

"...Was that too far?" Rose asked in a small voice, which echoed in from just beyond the kitchen's boundaries as Dave finished laying out his arbitrarily-chosen ingredients.

"Little bit," he responded calmly, donning a hastily-forged verbal mask over his present emotions.

"I wasn't trying to hurt or ostracize you."

"Yeah. I know."

"...I'm sorry," she offered.

Dave chose not to respond.

In time, however, the absurd futility in trying to ignore Rose by stacking bread, meat, and cheese together wore down on Dave, and he was forced to abandon his obstinate attempts to avoid speaking with his sister by the weight of his own compulsive thoughts alone.

".....I really wish," Dave started, facing the wall behind the counter his arms were now crossed over, but hesitated, because he wished for a lot of things and, if ever one of them was to be miraculously granted, he would hate for it to have been something he said without forethought.

"...I wish you weren't dead, for one. I wish mom wasn't dead. I wish my bro spent more time around the house. I wish the last five years of my life didn't feel as short as they do -- and I even wish that I could have been a better brother for you, Rose, when you were alive, just so your own life would have meant that much more. But right now, I really... I really wish your sense of humor was just a little less fucked up than it is."

Dave slumped, moving to rest both of his hands on the cool counter-top, spread far apart from one another, and he shuddered as myriad thoughts and feelings suddenly seized him.

"...You're not doing as well as I thought, are you?" Rose asked quietly from the kitchen doorway.

"Fuck if I know, Rose. I... "

"You're hot and bothered in more ways than one, and if it isn't the fault of my death, then it is of my persistence in not staying dead."

"...Yeah. Sounds about right."

Gingerly, as he saw Rose calmly approach, Dave took several deep breaths. They calmed him very little, but 'little' held more effect than 'none.'

"If it's any consolation," Rose said once considerably closer, but still maintaining a respectful distance, "I don't truly know why I am still here. And I am as sorry as I can be for allowing my charade to venture so far beyond that."

"That's... fine," Dave muttered, but shook his head immediately afterwards. "I mean, it isn't; but that's not what's fucking me up right now. There's just... something inherently wrong with all this -- with _you,_ still being here as if nothing ever happened, as if death is a disability instead of a permanent, irrevocable _thing_ that happens when people die. You're still... your _body_ is still... sitting in the ground in a cemetery somewhere, and yet we've continued talking for this long, as if it doesn't defy the natural, biological fucking laws of everything humans have ever scientifically recorded about life on this earth."

"I know, Dave, just as much if not more so than you. It hasn't been easy on me, either; my distasteful... antics, if we may so refer to them, are only indicative of just how much that still holds true."

"...Yeah. I picked up on that a long time ago; but it doesn't get any fucking easier, does it?"

"If our collective past experiences are of any indication, no, not in the slightest. Our troubles merely become rooted further and further in the past."

"...That fucking sucks. _This_ fucking sucks," he determined, smacking a hand on the counter.

"It does."

"And it's stupid fucking goddamn _bullshit_."

"It is."

"...But it still doesn't get any  _fucking_ easier."

"...It doesn't. And it quite possibly never will. ...But, Dave, clichéd a sentiment though it may be, I have faith that you will overcome it in the end."

Dave, despite himself, began to laugh at this. It was a soft, subdued laugh which did not last by any stretch of the imagination, but for a brief moment, the tension which had been plaguing him began to ease. "...Rose, you are a real fucking piece of work, you know that?"

"I like to think of myself as no worse than most siblings out in the world."

"Seriously; you are the only girl I have ever known who could all but throw herself at a dude without so much as a hint of genuine sincerity, and not five minutes later assure him of his life's overarching potential for longevity and success. ...And... I think I'd prefer if it stayed that way, if only so there are never more than one of you."

"I... would be willing to accept that. I will, for my part, remain as your only Rose, so long as you let me claim you as my only Dave. And I mean that _without_ any sexual connotation."

"Pft. As if I have a legitimate choice in whether my intangible ghost sister keeps me company."

"You have... a lot of choices in life, Dave, including every choice that has not yet presented itself to you. And so long as we're on the topic, could you promise to me that you'll make the best of those choices, as you have up until now?"

"I..." Dave said with uncertainty, because Rose's voice had dipped into a tone more serious than comforting, but as he looked over at her, floating at eye-level just past his shoulder, Dave saw conviction in her eyes. "...Sure, Rose. I promise. Been keepin' the first one pretty well; might as well try my hand at a second."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah, Rose. I'll do my best."

"Are you  _certain?_ "

"...Uh, were the last two affirmative answers not good enough?"

Without a drop of subtlety, Rose pointed to the counter. "If you're certain, then clean up after yourself, before your sandwich ingredients spoil."

"...Fucking," Dave mumbled at the anticlimactic request, but set himself to the task without delay. "...Christ, Rose; we'll have a whole conversation about the morals and fiscal shit surrounding a stripping career without you batting an eye, but if there's some fucking ham on the counter, suddenly it's serious goddamn business."

"I just want you to make good on your promises, Dave. Consistency is a good trait to possess in life."

"Yeah, and I'm sure you have years upon years of refined experience to draw that conclusion from."

"I have... a greater pool of knowledge and experience than you might think. And if I can help it, I will ensure it benefits you to the absolute best of my ability. Now hurry; I can practically see the bacteria multiplying on your Kraft singles."

"Okay,  _mom._ "

"Dave, please!" Rose said with a hand to her chest. "Do not make light of the dead."

Dave stared at Rose for a long, achingly long moment after that. And then, in spite of the mood's earlier funk, and for no reason greater than because it felt right, the two of them laughed. Together, they laughed, the oppressive weight of past events briefly lifting from the air around them, and it was one of the most genuine moments Dave could ever recall sharing with his sister.


	5. Vanquish

Once fully packed, heading off to college was no challenge for Dave.

His lingering mental and emotional torments pervaded him even now, he had realized, but with Rose's unyielding support they were a manageable problem. These issues might plague him until death, and possibly afterward, if Rose was of any indication; but no matter its feasible end or lack thereof, this unique set of personal problems would not prevent him from living his life. He swore that much to himself.

Soon, and with no small amount of determination, Dave had completed year after successful year of his higher education, not quite the top student of his graduating class, but none too far off.

In that time, he met a young woman, one whose interests were somewhat more grounded than his, but none the less exciting (to her) for it; she studied everything from biology to nuclear science, even when her classes did not strictly require it of her, and Dave could not help but feel vaguely cheated whenever in her presence, as though life were a zero-sum game, and her greater intelligence was a sign that she had in some way swindled him before they ever met. She was, by little coincidence, not only among the students which received higher grades than Dave, but also leading them from the very top.

Her name was Jade Harley, Dave discovered halfway through the first year, and by the second year he could not go a single day without thinking of her -- especially not once Rose picked up on his feelings, and made absolutely sure to tease him on it at every possible opportunity. But thankfully, mercifully, despite spending most of her time either gushing about modern technological wonders or scanning the pages of a textbook concerning them, Jade knew just enough about social interaction to recognize Dave's not-so-subtle enamorment, and let him in on two important facts.

The first was that his affection was not unrequited, and that she, too, liked the idea of being more than friends with him. But before any passionate moments could be shared, she unveiled the second, which was that she was not looking for a serious relationship at the moment, and likely would remain that way until after college.

Disheartened, but understanding, Dave simply responded, "I can wait." And he did.

Four years of college came and went, and the day after their graduation, the two of them began forging a life together in a small city apartment. Dave began his career as a set production assistant, while Jade found work as a research assistant. Their hours were long, which Dave might have felt more inclined to bemoan were it not for Rose's constant reminders, and his own desire to simply occupy his mind. He was by no means struggling with the same problems he had before beginning college, nor anywhere near as much, but the continuation of a daily grind post-higher education was welcome. It gave his life purpose, and structure -- and in getting to come home every day to the person with whom he grew a fulfilling relationship, Dave never felt unrewarded with his hard work.

In time, life continued to improve. Both Dave and Jade acquired promotions and pay raises, neither one willing to stop working hard, especially while the other supported them. They moved from one apartment to another, finding ones that were of a better quality even if they might be out of the way from their jobs, until eventually they saved enough money to afford a home together.

A day even came when Dave offered Jade a ring on one knee, she accepted it, and just over a month after the fact the two were wed.

But through all of it, Dave never told Jade about Rose.

He in fact told no one of his thirteen year old sister which he often saw following him around, and which frequently used his sister's voice to remind him of an obligation, tease him about his life, or just express a persistent interest in sticking around. Bound by his promise, and reminded of it every time he saw Rose, he lived with his secret without intent to divulge it.

Then, one day during a weekend where Dave had no film shoots to attend, and Jade tended carefully to her garden, Dave made the discovery -- or rather, rediscovery -- of an old box stuffed alongside other clutter in the master bedroom's closet.

It was a small, slim rectangular box, one that he remembered bringing with him to college and keeping ever since, but never having the mind to open it again amid the near-constant stream of events over the past decade.

"Hey, Rose," he called softly, looking around for a moment before he spotted her on the bed behind him. He held up the box. "D'you remember this?"

She peered at it inquisitively, and tapped her chin as she considered it. "I cannot say I do. Are you, perchance, about to live out the wild fantasy of opening this mystery box?"

"Well, it'd be pretty fuckin' anticlimax if I just shrugged and tossed it back where I found it. C'mon, let's see what kinda sick loot past me forgot about all these years."

He retrieved a pair of scissors from the kitchen, stopping for a moment as he considered telling Jade about his box, but hesitating as he watched her through the window. She was happily watering a row of eggplants, prancing in such a way that made Dave quickly decide against stealing her from her reverie. If the box's contents were worth showing her, he could always do so when she was unoccupied.

Taking up a place at the dining room table, Dave made short work of the tape on the box, and quickly noticed an odd smell as he opened the top flaps. Metallic and musty, like a dusty factory floor.

He shook the box out over the table, and after a moment, out came a shirt. The same shirt, Dave realized, that he had worn the night Rose passed away. He had kept it all these years, never really thinking about it, and yet never quite forgetting, either. Some part of him, he could tell, had known that he had kept the morbidly sentimental belonging all this time, but his active consciousness had never really grappled with the fact of it until now.

Rose, for her part, looked entirely unphased by the article of clothing stained with her years-old blood, even as Dave picked it up to inspect it. "I was wondering when you would remember you had kept that."

Dave blinked up at her, frowning. "You said you didn't remember this."

"I say a lot of things," Rose admitted with a shrug, though where Dave expected a teasing quality to her voice, or at least a playful smirk, there was none. "It really is a sobering reminder, that. I've been here all this time, of course, and far more often in your face than the shirt -- but the shirt has a physical weight to it. A smell now, too, vividly reminiscent of death."

"Hey, I thought we were past all the morbid shit."

"I'm not being morbid -- just factually observant. You know," she said as her gaze lifted from the shirt to Dave's eyes, "like your sister was."

Dave stared at her, an uneasy silence forming as neither said anything. "...What do you mean," he said quietly, but it wasn't a question. To pose it as a question would have implied he did not know the answer.

A soft sigh escaped Rose, and she closed her eyes. "You know what I mean," Rose confirmed. She opened her eyes again. "Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Rose, c'mon. You've worked for the better half of thirteen years to convince me you were real, and help me because of it. You can't turn back on that now."

"Wrong," Rose asserted. "I worked for a single night to convince you, and then for the remainder of our time together you convinced yourself. Only," she added tiredly, "there is no difference between 'you' and 'I' anyhow, and you know it."

"I don't," Dave defied.

"You do, and you did the very first night you saw me. You knew I wasn't real; you even said so very bluntly, but it was in saying it that you had already deluded yourself, so desperate were you to be wrong. A boy who doesn't believe in something does not shout at it to leave; he closes his eyes and _wills_ it away until it is gone."

Dave said nothing, only looking solemnly at Rose. After a minute, he found his voice. "Please don't do this," he begged quietly, barely above a whisper.

"We can review the evidence, if you like. You and I both know just how much is stockpiled in your memories -- the same memories, ironically enough, that you often used to lie to yourself about my being real."

"Stop. Please," Dave pleaded, ever so slightly louder.

"Eighth grade, I offered to help you cheat on a test, seamlessly revealing it to be a prank when your subconscious could not successfully substitute an unnatural knowledge of your teacher's desk's contents with random guesses."

"Rose, please..."

"The same month, I assured you it was safe to cross a street, as I had done at every other crossing you did not already see a vehicle at -- not because I was trying to kill you, as you insisted, but because even your subconscious did not have the awareness to see the encroaching truck before it blared its horn at you."

"Rose," Dave choked back a sob.

"How about the way I always had a knack for saying what you were feeling, including the harsh stuff that just wouldn't suffice if you mumbled them to yourself, even though I never once displayed any such ability whilst alive?"

" _Rose._ "

"Or my dutiful continuation to care about you even when you reminded me that your sister was far more callous in life, to which I would always respond with that little sanity-keeping sprinkling of teasing."

"Rose!"

"And let's not forget your every attempt to ignore me with a distraction, which worked without fail, because seeing and hearing a hallucinated phantasm always proves more difficult while the mind is occupied."

"I know!" Dave shouted, standing from his chair and knocking it over as he did. He was trembling, holding back tears now, and his breaths came out ragged and uneven. "...I know."

"Then why lie to yourself for so long?"

Dave sucked in a breath, glowering at Rose. "...You know why."

"I do. But I want you to say it. To _acknowledge_ it. You want your sister to be here so bad, here she is, telling you to own up and stop pretending."

A wheezing sigh rocked Dave's frame, causing him to shudder. "...I thought," he said, and swallowed thickly. "I thought I could justify it. By keeping the shirt. Because then you'd have a reason to stay, as long as I had it."

"Keep going. You're almost done -- why else?"

Dave blinked back tears, scrunching his face as they escaped anyway. "Because I missed you. Because I _still_ miss you!"

"No, Dave. Dig deeper."

Dave shook, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists. The shirt nearly tore in their resolute grip. "...Because I wasn't ready to lose you," he finally admitted.

The door leading to the backyard flung open, and Jade dashed inside, freezing as she saw Dave. "Dave -- what's wrong?" she asked hurriedly, visibly panicked. "I heard you yell; are you alright?"

Wordlessly, Dave turned around, and Jade's eyes trailed down to the shirt in his hands. Her brow furrowed for a moment, before her face twisted into a grimace. "What _is_ that? And why does it... smell like that?"

Slowly, Dave looked up at her, hesitantly opening his mouth as if to reply, then shutting it again. He turned, momentarily, to the table where he had opened the box, and regarded the space around it.

Empty.

He took a breath. "I can't tell you."

"Wh... why not?"

"I made a promise."

"You... you made a promise not to tell people about a gross, bloody shirt?" Jade shook her head. "Why? To who?"

Dave considered the fabric in his hands for a long time, still slowly wringing the stiff material between them. Only one answer stood on his tongue, even as he wished a second would spontaneously become the truth in its place.

"...To myself," he said honestly. "Because I wouldn't have made it otherwise."

Dave never saw, or heard, Rose ever again.


End file.
